


Along Came Alfred

by ellamequiere



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellamequiere/pseuds/ellamequiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a conference, and a blowjob, and a case of mistaken identity...  so that makes it like 30% Shakespeare?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along Came Alfred

“Absolutely not.” His back straightened in indignation, and he stared straight ahead.

“But, Arthur, Angleterre...”

“No.”

“But imagine it, Arthur, you, under the table--”

“No.”

“--sucking, sucking so good--”

“No.”

“--and I am so hard--”

“No.”

“--and the others, they hear, they suspect, but they do not know--”

“Francis. Stop.”

The other man circled around behind him, stopping centimeters from his back, slipping nasty, treacherous fingers over his hipbones, pulling him in, whispering insidiously in his ear, “--they do not know what you are doing, the dirty things you are doing to me, how you are sucking me like a slut, how hard is my cock in your mouth--”

Arthur cleared his throat loudly. “Francis, I will not give you head under a table at the conference, or at any other venue, no matter how--”

“--and it would be such a shame, yes, such a shame if those pictures we took last year were to get out--”

“...you wouldn't.”

“Ah, but I would, my delicate flower, my luscious strawberry, my--”

Arthur stalked from the room, tuning out the odious endearments (Francis only used them when he knew he had won), considering with dread-- and, if he were honest with himself, a treacherous tinge of excitement-- the meeting on Tuesday.

And so it was, that when the lights dimmed for Japan's powerpoint presentation (Revolutionizing the Cellphone Pornography Market, a Socio-Economic Approach), and Francis waggled his eyebrows from across the table, Arthur gave a defeated sigh, and slid down in his chair to retrieve the pen that he had intentionally knocked down. Crawling across the floor, as silently as possible, Arthur cursed Francis, sex, homosexuality-- hadn't the priests always told him it was a bad idea?-- and especially alcohol, which he blamed fairly or not for the whole situation.

He had a moment of confusion, faced with the rows of legs, distinctive national costumes rendered nearly identical by the darkness and his own poor eyesight (he'd been fighting the idea of glasses since they'd been invented). He hadn't realized how dark in would be down here, surrounded by a hundred pairs of nondescript feet-- and one pair in sparkly pink spike heels, but those were on the other side of the room, playing footsie with-- oh Lord help him... It was lucky he knew where Francis sat, or he'd find himself blowing any old fool; he had a cringe-inducing thought about Ludwig, and a worse one about Ivan.

Locating Francis' legs at last, Arthur swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and put his hands on the knees in front of him.

 

Alfred-- Al, as he had been trying unsuccessfully to get the other nations to call him since his colonyhood-- put the finishing touches on an inspired cartoon of himself with the statue of liberty (only France would send him a gigantic woman as a birthday present), and tapped his fingers impatiently. He hated sitting still for these talks. He longed to be out hunting Enemies, throwing Frisbess, eating Burgers...

“--thus expanding the market from the previous narrow range of old men and teenage boys, to include nearly every demographic imaginable.”

Just then, under the table, he felt a pair of-- hands. He jumped with a startled squeak, earning himself a curious look from France, and an excited nod from Japan. “Yes, that's right! With the invention of--”

Al shot a suspicious look at Russia, but the man was staring at the ceiling, humming with a vague smile on his face. He couldn't be responsible. He looked around the table, panicked, looking for empty chairs. Iran, but that was no surprise. And-- England?

The hands slid up the inside of his thighs, and Al looked around nervously. Aside from that one handjob from an incredulous Mexico (“Really, EEUU? Never?”), no one had ever touched his thighs before, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He looked left at Francis for help, but the man was considering him, looking interested, and amused. He doubted any help was coming from that quarter. He considered interrupting Japan's presentation, but after a look at Germany, decided against it. Just yesterday the man had told him that if he interrupted meeting proceedings one more time... Well, the threat had been terrible. (One must never underestimate the propaganda of the Germans. He had learned that the hard way.)

His resolution was tested when the panicked circles his mind was running in were derailed by the feeling of a face against his-- oh. Oh.

He could feel the heat rising in his face, and he took a few shallow breaths through his nose. The mouth was-- it was open, tracing his-- well, his-- and sucking him through the fabric of his favorite pants, and then there were hands... His eyes flicked briefly over England's empty seat. Oh God.

When the hands-- England's hands, he thought, and it made his breath come quicker-- when they popped open his button, he knew for sure that he was about to have his second sexual experience. Hadn't France told him, when he'd asked all those years ago, that it should be with someone special, someone who meant a lot to him? It should be perfect, it should be romantic, you should woo her (or him, he'd added, to Al's great discomfort) until you win her... He'd always suspected that France hadn't been quite truthful when he'd claimed that this was the only way of making love, and here was the older nation now, watching him pant and squirm with more interest, perhaps, than was proper. When their eyes met, France looked away, but the half-smile didn't disappear from his face, and Al could see that only his right hand was on the table. His left-- he looked down, and then quickly away, the sight both making him intensely uncomfortable and making the blood pump fast to his-- well. His--

His zipper was pulled down. There was wet heat on him through his boxers, and he bit back a moan. France's mouth quirked into a bigger smile, and the rhythm of his right hand changed. It took everything he had to keep his gaze fixed on a point across the room, to keep from staring at the nation next to him. When a hand pulled him out through the slit in his boxers, he drew a sharp breath, and saw France exhale with a quiet “Ahh...” When the mouth first closed over the end of his-- well, you know, his-- he nearly came right there.

And then, it was moving. It was sucking and it was licking, and there were hands cupping his-- and, oh God... and when he closed his eyes, he could see England, serious England, with his eyes closed and his face flushed and his cheeks hollow with the suction, just like the woman he had seen on Japan's computer that one time... he bit back another groan, looking over quickly at his other neighbor, and seeing with relief that China was intent on the presentation screen, taking enthusiastic notes and not paying him the slightest attention.

The feeling changed. There was less teasing, less sucking, more-- God, he was all the way in, and he had the brief thought, where was the man putting it all? Then England swallowed around him, and he stopped thinking altogether. He gripped the sides of his chair, hard, and fought the little jerking motions his hips were trying to make. He barely noticed when France leaned in, and was startled when the man whispered, “Do not worry. He is skilled, our Angleterre-- you will not hurt him if you thrust.” Al gave a little cry in the back of his throat. “There there, little one. They are not looking at you. I think that it is time that you come for him-- he will like that very much.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see France's arm moving, but he refused to look down. “Ah yes,” said France, “I see that you would like to look. But you are too shy, yes? Here-- instead, you will feel.” Al didn't fight as France took his hand, guided it to his lap, curled it around his-- his-- “Ahh.” The other man exhaled huskily, and moved their hands together over him. France let go then, meeting Al's eyes and licking his lips, moving his hips slowly, slowly, in time with the shy movements of Al's hand. He couldn't help himself. He looked down. There was his hand, wrapped around France's-- France's-- his cock.

The mouth under the table slid almost all the way off, and then back down again with a fierce tug of suction, and Al was coming the hardest he'd ever come in his whole life. Little aftershocks rippled through his muscles, and the mouth sucked, gently, the last of the orgasm out of him. Boneless, heart pounding, he watched as Japan concluded his presentation.

 

“And that, ladies and gentlemen--”

France gave Al's hand a final squeeze, and then moved it so he could zip himself back up. Al gave him a hazy look. “Don't you want...?” he said, less quietly than he meant to. France put a finger to his lips. “Yes, my friend, I want. You, come to my house tonight, and I will show you what I want.” Al gulped.

The lights came on, and a moment later England reappeared at his seat, looking slightly red in the face. Al saw him shoot an alarmed glance at France, and realized that the man had his arm around the back of his chair. England looked back and forth between them for a long moment, and France winked. Al tried to meet England's eyes, but the other nation looked quickly away, with an unconvincing cough. As the nations stood up to leave, France leaned in, and whispered, “Remember, little Alfred. Tonight.”

Then they were filing out, and if Al got a few strange looks, there were other things on his mind.


End file.
